Going Cold
by JuniperGentle
Summary: When the news comes, he goes cold. Set somewhere between Sinbad no Bouken and Magi. Character death, grief, lots of family love in a somewhat unusual family.


_At the time of writing, the mentioned events have merely been alluded to in canon. Therefore there is a very good chance this will end up being AU. Never mind.  
_

 _It would be very advisable to have read Sinbad no Bouken for this story._

* * *

 **Going Cold**

When the news comes, he goes cold.

He doesn't notice for a while. Sindria is hot, after all, and unlike some of his fellow generals he does make a habit of actually wearing a decent amount of clothing. But slowly, as the morning wears away inexorably into afternoon, he finds himself chilled in a way that the sun and his robes cannot combat.

He doesn't quite know what to do, or how to react, and that throws him in a way that not even the most unexpected attack ever has. There's not much he _can_ do, in all honesty. What do you _say_ in these situations?

 _Rurumu is dead_.

Hinahoho is distraught, that much is obvious, but it's not something that can be redirected. There is no rage to be taken out against whichever Djinn Equip could handle it. There are only a few tears to be comforted, even temporarily. The huge man just seems... empty. Smaller, somehow, without his beloved. He folds in on himself, collapsing like burnt paper, and Ja'far can only stand and watch him.

The walls of the palace lose their warmth too quickly now. Even the sequestered spots that Ja'far is so fond of, those places where sun and stone marry perfectly to create a little oasis of heat, are cold when he seeks them out. He places a hand against the golden stone and watches the tiny tremors run up and down his arm. Beneath pale skin, red life whispers _you live, you live._ His mind echoes back _she does not,_ _she is gone._

It is about three days after the news comes that Hinahoho finally mutters something about just wanting to forget it all for a while, and Sinbad immediately opens the cellars for all of them, sending the servants home early and bolting the doors behind them. This is not a stage for public mourning, after all. But Ja'far is the worst candidate for drowning sorrows with – Ja'far gets somewhat _strange_ when drunk, doesn't enjoy it in the least, and can never remember it the next day. So he lets Sinbad and Drakon and Sharrkan and Masrur and – what the hell, _all_ of them, even Yamraiha – drag the much bigger man off to just _forget_ for a few blissful hours.

Meaning Ja'far is left with the children.

They're so young, he thinks as he wanders through their rooms, halting in the playroom to stand surrounded by discarded toys, safe where no-one can see him. The youngest can't be much more than six. To lose a parent at that age...

It hits him like Sinbad's Djinn Equip straight to the gut, and he doubles over, shaking with cold that has crept into his bones without him noticing and iced over every part of him that isn't suddenly _hurting_ more than anything he has ever felt before.

Oh gods of Sindria. How had he _forgotten?_

It doesn't matter to him that he is twenty-two years old, and really should be over this whole emotions thing by now. In his head, once again, he is that tiny, terrified, blood-drenched six-year-old who didn't _know_ how empty and cold and harsh the world was, who only had the cool blades at his wrists and the orders of those who sought to use and abuse his abilities to guide him.

In his head, he is the slim, well-dressed eleven-year-old suddenly faced with the possibility that the first person he ever truly _loved_ didn't actually love _him_ as much as she claimed _._ That he was about to be replaced by a child that was her flesh-and-blood, and that once again he would be cast aside, fatherless, motherless, alone in a sea he could not swim.

In his head, he is that same eleven-year-old, held still for the first time in his life by something that isn't rope and isn't pain and isn't whatever the hell Sinbad used because it sure wasn't either of those. It was the first and only time he ever let something, let alone some _one_ put their arms around him like that. He didn't deal well with being trapped, after all.

Now he wishes he'd let her do it again. Perhaps he'd remember it better if he had.

When he didn't want a mother, she mothered him. When he didn't want a brother, she gave him one. When he didn't want anything to do with anyone, she sat him down and taught him to read, to write, to count and to reckon numbers, how to speak courteously, how to help run a company, how to act like a young gentleman and be of real help to Sinbad, rather than stay a vicious gutter-snipe assassin. She taught him wisdom and patience, taught him that being strict with someone did not mean you didn't care deeply for them, taught him to be calm in the face of both rage and terror, taught him the value of stepping back to strengthen yourself for a better attack.

She is the reason he is where he is now. She is the reason he can keep Sindria running as smoothly as it does. She did more for him in some ways than Sinbad ever has, and asked for nothing in return. She was so much better than him, so much worthier of life.

And now she is gone, and he can _never_ repay her for everything she ever did for him.

Wasn't it enough that he could never pay back Sinbad?

 _Rurumu is dead._

His chest aches with a feeling he doesn't have a name for. His hands are shaking, so cold he can barely feel them. In his ears, he hears the pounding of his heart _(what injustice it is, that his should beat still and hers should not)_ that is just a little too fast for his liking. He hates being this out of control, but at the same time he knows that if he tried to contain all of this, it would tear him apart from the inside. This is too much for one person to hold.

Ja'far folds himself into the large chair where Rurumu had once sat to show him how to repair the government robes he was so proud of with stitches so fine that they were invisible. He is dwarfed by it – after all, it is built to Imuchakk proportions. He loops his arms around his knees, feeling Balalark Sei gripping his skin from his wrists to his elbows.

The first time he used the lightning-snakes that he has grown to love and rely on so much was to defend Rurumu's child.

The cold creeps upwards, a winter tide rising, and he barely notices when the waves he cannot read and the seas he cannot control overflow out of his command and drip miserably down his face.

.

Kikiriku can't sleep. It's not that he misses his mother – he does, but that is a stone in his throat that is there all the time now. He has cried already, and grief is his constant companion, but it is not grief that keeps him awake. No, this is something different. This is something that feels wrong with the world, something tugged out of place like a fishing hook caught on a rock and threatening to pull the boat under if he doesn't slow down and untangle it.

He sits up and swings his legs over the side of the bed. The floor is cold under his feet, though not as cold as walking barefoot on ice (he has done that once, and Mama shouted at him because it was ice over a lake and he could have drowned). It shocks him fully awake, and the feeling of wrongness intensifies. His skin prickles with it, but he cannot see or hear anything that might be causing it.

Mama is not there. Dad is away with King Sinbad and the others; Kiki heard them going down the stairs to the cellars earlier and knows enough about his father's friends to realise that they won't be back before dawn.

But his big brother has to be around somewhere. Ja'far doesn't like to go drinking like his dad does. Even better, Ja'far is smart and strong and always knows what to do. If Kiki says that something doesn't feel right, Ja'far will fix it, or at least know how to get hold of someone else who can.

Kikiriku hasn't actually talked to Ja'far in quite a while. He knows that Ja'far is very busy a lot of the time now, and after all, Kiki has his sisters to play with; he doesn't need to go bothering Ja'far. But that doesn't mean that he doesn't miss his first brother – and Mama had been very insistent that Ja'far might not have been an Imuchakk by birth, but he was _family_ , and that was sacred. He was Kiki's smaller big brother, and that was _important_.

" _You'll have lots of little brothers and sisters,"_ Mama had told him. _"But Ja'far is your only big brother. Sometimes he might forget that, if he's very badly hurt. So just make sure you look after him when he does, alright?"_

He hadn't understood how someone as _brave_ , as _strong,_ as _beautiful_ and _terrifying_ as Ja'far (who is really just snakes and lightning wrapped up in human form when Kikiriku thinks about it that way) could get hurt.

But when Kikiriku pushes open the door of the playroom and finds Ja'far curled up in a chair that is far too large for him, that one place where the other generals or Sinbad would never even think of looking for him, he knows his brother is hurting even before eyes that have only ever been green, black or in terrible, terrifying moments _grey_ are suddenly meeting his, and this time they are red and bleeding oceans.

He can smell the salt from here.

"You should be in bed, Kiki," Ja'far says, trying to sound stern. It doesn't work – his face is wet and his voice cracks halfway through the sentence, leaving him whispering. The wrongness in the world twists around him, tugging Kiki towards him. Kiki goes with it, because that feels like the right thing to do.

"So should you," he retorts, because the moon is sinking in the sky and that means that even the night-time fishers should be heading home. Ja'far blinks, apparently not expecting a response like that. "Mama says sleep is very important, even more important than eating."

Ja'far's expression flickers. "I know, Kiki." His lips go white as he presses them together, drawing in a deep breath through his nose. "I know." He looks for a moment as if he is trying to smile, but Kiki now knows the face of someone trying to hide grief and isn't convinced even for a second.

Ja'far is his big brother. Ja'far is wise and strong and courageous and Kiki loves and idolises him because who else has a big brother who can tie enemies up with red wires like a spider, who can run and jump and climb faster and higher than anyone else Kiki has ever seen, who can scold the most powerful man in the whole world for his bad behaviour and get away with it?

And Ja'far is crying.

The sight shakes Kiki more than anything else has. Seeing Dad cry was awful, but Dad is one of the ocean-folk and the sea flows through his veins so it makes sense that sometimes salt water should fall from his eyes. But Ja'far is hot, dry, swift-moving sand like the beaches the ocean roars against, touched by the ocean but never one with it, and seeing the sea trickling down his face is wrong, wrong, _wrong._

So Kikiriku does the only thing he can think of, and holds his arms out to his tiny big brother who barely lets anyone touch him and doesn't really like hugs but _needs_ one more than anything right now.

To his surprise (and, if he knew it, Ja'far's) Ja'far lets him. Doesn't fight. Doesn't pull away. Doesn't slide out from young arms like a snake just to coil in on himself once more. Just steps in and lets him, as he has only let one other person do before.

Kikiriku is eleven years old. He is a son of the Imuchakk, though he has rarely seen his homeland. He has blue hair and an infectious grin. He loves his father very much. He has just lost his mother, who he also loved very much. And he knows what the others do not – what the others _cannot_ and _must not –_ that Ja'far's heart is breaking and cannot be put back together by all the djinns and magic in the world.

So he just hugs his older brother as tightly as he can without hurting him, and waits until the oceans in Ja'far's heart and eyes have run dry.


End file.
